


Back on our feet

by mariesondetre



Category: True Detective
Genre: Feet, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariesondetre/pseuds/mariesondetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know this is a weird obsession I seem to have, but here are some feet-centered scenes of our rednecks' lives. Feet are not a sexual fetish for me, just an intimate and vulnerable part of the human body.</p>
<p>TD fandom, I can't thank all of you enough for having sparked the inspiration in me one more time.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Back on our feet

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a weird obsession I seem to have, but here are some feet-centered scenes of our rednecks' lives. Feet are not a sexual fetish for me, just an intimate and vulnerable part of the human body.
> 
> TD fandom, I can't thank all of you enough for having sparked the inspiration in me one more time.

1995  


Rustin Cohle grew up in Alaska. This means his father taught him three things: when it's cold, always cover your head, because half of the body heat is lost through the head; be very careful not to let your fingers get too cold, or you might lose them from frostbite; and always take good care of your feet.  


Since he's been living in Southern states, he doesn't really need to put the first two advices into practice, but he's always stuck to the third. He dries his feet and toes well after the shower, changes socks each day, chooses them with care, always pure cotton or wool. He wears strong, military-like leather boots on a daily basis.  
His dressing and undressing routines are built in the purpose of putting shoes on as soon as possible, and getting them off almost last thing: briefs, pants, socks, shoes, and only after, wifebeater and shirt; and then the other way around to get naked.

Marty has vaguely noticed it, when they dress or undress in companionable silence in the locker room. He, on the contrary, is the kind of guy who takes his shoes off on every occasion he gets. As soon as he enters the locker room, he stuffs his socks into his shoes and wanders barefoot as long as possible before having to put them back on. He's been taught to remove his shoes when he enters a house, and it feels natural to him. Actually, if he could come to work in flip-flops, he would be delighted. Wouldn't look very professional though.

Even when he spends a few weeks at Rust's house in '95, Marty doesn't see more than glimpses of Rust's feet, but he doesn't realize that at this point. He has other things in mind.

 

1997  


They're interrogating a witness in a small village in the depths of cajun country, when the guy turns on his heels without a warning and vanishes into a small path through the trees nearby. They bolt behind him, tailing him close, when suddenly Rust trips in a pothole hidden in the grass on the path. He falls on one knee, but in two seconds he's standing up again and running like nothing happened. A few minutes of chase, then the guy takes a sharp turn and he vanishes. They search the undergrowth for a while, but they soon have to admit that they lost him.  
It's only when they start walking back in the direction of the car that Marty notices that Rust is limping.  


“What's the matter?”  


“Nothing, Marty, don't bother.”  


“Come on, you can barely walk on your right foot. Did you sprain your ankle or something?”  
Rust sighs, tries to walk in a normal way and then winces after two steps.  


“I don’t know, I'll look at it when we get to the car, okay?”  


But on the last quarter-mile Marty has to take Rust by the waist and support most of his weight. Rust lets himself sink in the passenger seat, closing his eyes with an annoyed frown on his face. Marty just crouches besides the car door and reaches toward Rust's foot.  


“I hope you changed your socks at least once in the last week, so that I don't pass out,” he jokes, untying the laces.  


“My feet don't smell.”  


“Well, I hope so.”  


“No, I mean my feet never smell. Even as a teenager it never happened.”  


“Bullshit, all feet smell once in a while!”  


“Maybe it's something to do with pheromones or whatnot, what can I say? Let me do it.”  


Rust tries to push him away but Marty's already pulled the boot and the sock off – fuck, it's true, he doesn't smell a damn thing, even if the sole of Rust's foot is slightly wet and he can feel the heat radiating from the heel. It must be because they're outside, he tells himself.  


Anyway, the ankle he's holding in his hand is starting to swell on the outside, he can see the difference with the bony inside malleolus. Other than that, there's no bruise, and the swelling doesn't extend to the foot itself.  


“So, how does it look?” Rust asks.  


“Sprained, but not too badly, I think. I'll take you to Maggie, she'll bandage it the right way. She did my wrist once.”  


Marty turns Rust's foot in his hand one more time to be sure. Surprisingly, Rust lets him. Marty catches himself observing Rust's well aligned toes. Tall men like him often have messy toes with bony articulations and flattened tips, but he doesn't. The toenails are pink, small and cleanly cut. The top of his foot doesn't show huge veins either, just sparse blond hairs and this soft area of bare skin just above the toes. Without thinking about it, Marty puts the pad of his thumb flat on this zone, pushing on his thighs to get up; his knees protest a bit for having stayed crouched down too long.  
While he walks around the car to get to the driver's seat, he discreetly puts his fingers to his nose. No feet smell. Weird.

Maggie takes the ice pad out of the freezer and tells Rust to hold it on his ankle while she prepares the elastic band. Then she does the wrapping with skilled hands, explaining in a calm voice how Rust should re-do the compressive bandage every day for a week or so, not too tight, and sleep with his leg elevated to decrease the swelling. Rust listens without saying anything, watching Maggie's hands on his foot under heavy eyelids. Marty hovers over them, feeling a surge of something that resembles anger – he tells himself it's because it's not nice to see his wife taking care of another man like that, but he unconsciously rubs the pad of his thumb against his other fingers.

 

2007  


Sometime during the fifth year after the divorce, Marty gets up in the middle of one night to take a piss, kicks in the side of the bathroom door, and breaks his pinky toe. The pain is so sharp he thinks he might throw up. In the end he doesn't, but he finds himself at 3 am in the emergency room, getting his foot x-rayed and eventually his toe taped to the one next to it.

When the doctor explains the treatment – pain meds, ice, elevating the foot at night – Marty suddenly feels himself going back in time. After a moment of dizziness, he shakes the doctor's hand, and goes home.  


But as soon as he lies in bed again, his toe throbbing with his pulse, the memory comes back. He counts: it was ten years ago. He can't quite believe it. He still remembers the weight of Rust's foot in his hand, and ten years after the touch suddenly feels too intimate, even if it didn't feel this way at the time.  


Then he pictures the way Maggie had tended to the injury, and he doesn't know if he hates Rust more for what happened between him and Maggie or for not being there now so that he could punch him and have him take care of this fucking stupid broken toe. Something tugs painfully at the center of his chest, a mix of feelings he didn't know he had in himself. He visualizes Rust's face and concentrates on hating him.

 

2012  


Rust talks about his little girl and his pop and his tears dig a hole into Marty’s heart.  
Marty squats in front of the wheelchair, in front of those bare, vulnerable feet on the footrest. He puts his hand on one, light and reassuring.  
They walk to the car, two wounded old men, alive and together. The asphalt is still warm from the sunny day under Rust’s feet.

Once they finally reach Marty’s bedroom and manage to get Rust to lie down without hurting too much, Marty makes a face at the sight of the sole of Rust’s feet, almost black from the parking lot dirt.  


“We have to wash those feet, boy. I may not be the perfect housewife, but I’m not letting you ruin my bed sheets.”  


“I’m not sure I can stand right now, Marty.”  


“Stay here.”  


Marty soon comes back with a basin and a washcloth. He helps Rust to sit up and put his feet in the lukewarm water, and starts soaping them. If Rust's face shows the passing of time, his feet look much younger, and Marty thinks that if he looked up he could almost see the Rust he met in '94, with his honey brown hair and that broken look in his eyes. His fingers curl around a heel and it's the most intimate thing he did since that long forgotten era when he bathed the tender bodies of his babies. His cheeks grow hot and he needs to tell a joke, something to acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation.  


“Don’t go thinking I'm gonna become a disciple of yours, now, with your Jesus face.”  


“It's the other way around, Marty, in the washing of the feet. I can't believe I have to tell you that.”  


Marty looks up, surprised to hear the hint of a smile in Rust's voice. They make eye contact and Marty feels that he's blushing again. He takes the towel next to him.  


“Oh yeah. Well, I'd have dried them with my hair, but...”  


And then, Marty has to double-check what he hears and sees, because Rust is chuckling. No, he actually laughs full force – as much as he can, anyway, given his injury, and it obviously hurts, but he doesn't try to stop. Marty knows it's the most beautiful thing he's witnessed in ten years, just after the sight of his daughters at his bedside in the hospital.

 

2014  


They've been living together for almost two years now, and Rust still takes good care of his feet. He still wears closed shoes and good socks. But in the lazy mornings when they don't have to go to work early, he walks barefoot in the kitchen to prepare coffee and toasts, and he appreciates the coolness of the tiles. And in the evenings after work, when Marty's already watching the news, he comes out of the bathroom in just his briefs and his undershirt, lies on the couch and puts his feet in Marty's lap. Marty draws his fingers along the sole of those feet, presses gently the pad of his thumb in this smooth area just above the toes, and it's as much peace as they need to go on.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are not familiar with the New Testament, Marty and Rust are joking about two scenes of Jesus' life.  
> Here are the quotes.
> 
> John 13:5-9 Jesus washes his disciples’ feet  
> 5 After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. 6 He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” 7 Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” 8 “No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” 9 “Then, Lord,” Simon Peter replied, “not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!”
> 
> Luke 7: 37-38  
> 37 A sinful woman in the town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house. So she brought an alabaster jar of perfume 38 and stood behind Jesus at his feet, crying. She began to wash his feet with her tears, and she dried them with her hair, kissing them many times and rubbing them with the perfume.


End file.
